


Wake Up

by Hope



Category: 21 Jump Street
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-07
Updated: 2005-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Season 1.  Dedicated to the rest of the fandom household!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> Season 1. Dedicated to the rest of the fandom household!

Doug's having this fantastic dream that he's swimming - or rather, floating with the occasional kick or paddle - in a vast, warm ocean, soft curls of waves never breaking white around him, occasional geysers - close but never close enough to cause alarm - shooting up nearby. Bliss. Then the phone begins to ring.

At first the sound tinkles as light upon the water, but as it continues it builds up, easing down low into his belly, heavy and uncomfortable; he goes to roll over irritably and the harsh scrape of linen instead of water on his skin jerks him fully into wakefulness. The phone's ringing. He has a killer hard on and he really, _really_ needs to use the bathroom. It's only when he pushes himself up into a half-sitting position that he realises that something is attempting to squeeze his brain into a bloody pulp, from a position somewhere just inside his skull. He groans and tries not to move as the phone ring sends tiny chisels on the end of a jackhammers into his head. There's an answering groan behind him.

The phone stops ringing and Doug turns around. His headache switches abruptly from violent to distant. Despite the fact that the person on the other side of his bed is quite completely swaddled in sheets (excepting an explosion of unstyled hair emerging somewhere around the head) and obvious still mostly asleep, Doug jerks the blankets still remaining on his side of the bed up around his waist as he realises that he's quite irrevocably naked.

The phone starts ringing again. A hand emerges from the mass, attached to an arm, flailing about with increasing purpose in what Doug assumes to be the direction of a nightstand, until it hits wall. Hanson's eyes, wide and alarmed, appear above the sheet level, followed gradually by the rest of his face.

"Doug?" Hanson's voice sounds slightly less awake than he appears to be himself. He clears his throat, winces. "What are you doing here?"

Doug's head starts to hurt again, and he realises it's because his forehead has suddenly clenched into what feels like a very puzzled frown. "What am _I_ doing here?" He knuckles at his brow. "I live here!"

Hanson appears to realise he's also naked the instant the phone starts ringing again; Doug recognises with a degree of sympathy the sudden death-grip upon the sheets a neck-level; though the covering sheets _had_ previously hidden that piece of information from him. "Uh," Doug pulls his own blankets higher around his ribcage. _deer in the headlights_ Doug's mind automatically provides as Hanson continues to stare, wide-eyed. "I'd better go, uh… answer that." He shuffles to the doorway as fast as he can without threat of indignity.

He picks up on the fifth ring, this time; a testament to the speed at which he exited the bedroom. "Doug Penhall."

"About time too. What, were you comatose?"

Doug glances at the clock over the sink 8.32. "Captain Fuller, I uh… just resting my eyes, sir."

"Well that's enough rest for one morning. I need you in the office."

Doug can't close his mouth for a moment. His head hurts and his heart is abruptly starting to catch up. "But we got the kids yesterday. Case closed."

"Different kids," Fuller is unapologetic. "Different case. I need you to give Hoffs a hand - she's been trying to crack this one for weeks now, it turns out now that they're more likely to take their dealing seriously when their customers aren't in skirts."

"I--"

"Now I'm sending you and Hanson in this morning, so be in here by nine at the latest. It may be in-character to be tardy, but not on my payroll."

"Yes, sir." Doug slouches, holding up the sheet beneath his arms and lifting a free hand to run through his hair. There's something sticky in it. Doug grimaces. A hint of laughter creeps into Fuller's voice.

"You boys must have had a big night last night - I couldn't even get on to Hanson!"

"I'll let him know," Doug mumbles, glancing up at the steep stairs that lead to his loft bedroom; quite timely, as Hanson's bare feet, high-cuffed jeans dangling around knobbly ankles, appear at the top of them.

"Why, you got a different phone number than I do?"

"No, he's right here."

"Oh," Fuller sounds surprised for an instant and it takes a few instants longer for Doug's hangover-smothered brain to realise why. "Like that then, is it?" Fuller's hearty chuckle buzzes down the line. "I'll see you two in half an hour, then."

"No, I--" The busy signal reverberates into Doug's ear. He watches from the corner of his eye as Hanson gets to the bottom of the steps; hair still ridiculously unruly, shirt half-tucked and belt buckled half-way around his hip. "Mhmm," Doug says into the mute receiver, stalling. "Okay Captain, we'll see you soon. Okay." He turns away to drop the phone back onto its cradle.

"That was Fuller," Doug says, for lack of anything else to say. Hanson turns to face him from where he was casually examining any part of the apartment that didn't have Doug currently in it, as if he'd just turned up at the door asking for a cup of sugar and Doug had invited him in. His eyebrows are raised in polite interest, but Doug can still see a spark of alarm in the tenseness of Hanson's jaw that suggests Tom hasn't actually heard a word Doug has said. Doug rubs a hand over his face, trying to forget the fact that all he's wearing is a sheet and somehow Hanson has ended up in his bed on a Friday morning. And Doug has no idea how he got there.

And from the way Hanson's eyes skate over Doug's blanket to idly peruse his crockery cupboards, Hanson has no idea either. At least Doug thinks so. (And at least a part of Doug paying particular attention to Hanson's hardly-veiled skittishness _hopes_ so.)

"Okay, look," Doug says, when the silence is no longer bearable. "I don't… I don't know how we ended up--" he gestures upwards in the general direction of his bedroom. "--There, last night. Hell, I don't even know how we made it up the stairs." Hanson blinks, mouth not even twitching with the _idea_ of laughter. "Why don't… Why don't we just forget about it."

"Already forgotten." Hanson offers one of those token, tight smiles that for some reason sets Doug's teeth on edge.

"Great. Great." Doug shuffles forward again a little. Hanson's eyes skate away again. "Uh, I'm just going to… get dressed. Fuller wants us in by nine."

Hanson grimaces. "But didn't we--"

"Already went through that. Today we're giving Hoffs a hand."

"Oh." Now Hanson looks well and truly downcast, though through no relation to Judy, Doug is sure. In fact, he's pretty sure that it's probably the same thing that's making him feel like he never wants breakfast again that's making Hanson appear less-than-perky.

"I'll be right back."

 

*

Hanson is wearing his tried-and-true torn-jeans-and-sleeveless-flannels; mainly because it was what he was wearing yesterday. Doug, having decided to follow his lead out of sympathy, regrets it shortly after they leave his apartment and he regains his sense of smell. Hanson's mustang is in the parking lot below the fire escape stairs, and he climbs stiffly off the motorbike to peer in the still-frosty window before bounding up the stairs. Doug follows a little more slowly.

The Chapel is already bustling by the time they get inside. 9.02am, Fuller's office; by 9.45 it's the principal's office at Washington High and the fact that Hanson's sullenness level doesn't really need to be toned up in order to play an obnoxious transferred JD student aids Doug somewhat in his own performance of rebellious adolescence. Another half-hour of talking back to the teacher and they regroup in the cafeteria; this time with the addition of a somewhat tired-looking Hoffs.

"Hey," she says, tipping back her hat. "You guys look awful. Big night?"

"You know it," Doug mutters, and she grins.

"Sorry I couldn't stay to enjoy the festivities til the end, but you know… Some of us have jobs that require us to get to bed at a reasonable hour."

"Yeah, and some of us have a day _off_ today."

Judy gives an exaggerated pout of condolence, shaking her head. "What's up with him?" she nods in Hanson's direction, where he's loitering somewhere beyond Doug's elbow, looking around the bustling cafeteria listlessly. The edge of a tray digs into Doug's back and he stumbles forward a little, baring his teeth at the kid behind him who mutters a dull "Sorry," before scurrying away. Hanson glances up at the movement, and then to Judy.

"Hung over," he offers blandly, taking a swig of milk. Jude raises an eyebrow.

"In character, then," she responds. He grunts.

"Look, uh," Doug scratches the back of his head. The thick fuzz from the mouthful of aspirin he had with his morning coffee is starting to wear off. "Where are these kids, then? Let's just get this over with."

"They're over there," Hanson offers, slouching up to stand closer to the two of them, gesturing with his milk carton and wiping his mouth on his sleeve simultaneously. Doug can already tell by the blankness that settles over his features what Hanson's next move will be; and focuses his energy more on tamping down the rising sense irritation than attempting to stop him. Who the hell is Doug to stop him, anyway? Hanson's morose, blatant criminality always seem to get him further than Doug's one-of-the-gang funny guy impressions ever does.

"Hey, wait--" Jude bursts out in an irritated whisper, but Hanson's already gone. She turns to Doug, hiding her subsequent fist-clenching from the crowd sprawled over the tables behind them. "He always like that?"

Doug laughs dryly, almost humourlessly, and dips his head into a shake. "Oh yeah. Always the hero." He glances over Jude's shoulder to where Hanson's now standing, shoulders now lifted slightly higher and tenser, legs slightly apart, clothes alternatively clinging or hanging off him in a not-quite-right imitation of adolescence. Hanson swills the milk carton in one hand before tipping his head back for the last swig, and a few of the kids he's standing before use the opportunity to exchange glances. Doug watches them nod slightly, then Hanson moves further in, like a lean dog slinking into the feeding pack, sliding slyly onto one of the bench seats.

Jude shakes her head. "Come on, then," her tone is wry, resigned. "I'll _introduce_ you."

It turns out they're cousins; which is better than brothers, Doug supposes (he could never really get his head around how anyone could _look_ at them standing next to each other and believe _that_ little white lie), though with the way Hanson is getting on his nerves… yeah. Sibling rivalry. Hanson plays up to it, though, slipping into a role that leaves Doug with no other choice but to be the dumb, quiet one. He's still better off than Hoffs, though; can see where her frustration came from, watching the girls stand around chewing gum ostentatiously and giggling as Hanson exchanges smart remarks with the denim-clad boys, like a bird puffing out its plumage. Hoffs is good at masking her slightly askew look as one of coyness when Doug slides an arm around to rest on her hip, and Doug is somewhat surprised when Hanson shuts up long enough for one of the kids to nod in his direction. "So what are you in for? Same rap?"

Doug smirks, glad to fall back on the whole acting part of it when he's so severely tempted to smack Hanson upside the head for walking over here before they got their stories straight. "What can I say?" He shrugs unapologetically, winging it and giving Judy's thigh a firm grope for good measure, something he will undoubtedly pay for later. "Jefferson cramped my style."

"And what style would that be, Doug?" Hanson's face is as blank as ever, tone only as cutting as the default edge of primal teenage banter, but Hoffs shifts a little, huffing out a short noise of amused disbelief that may or may not have something to do with the varying intensity of Doug's grip.

"Oh, you know. I don't know if you could really _classify_ it. Other than through favourable comparison."

For an instant, then, Hanson's face slips out of its mask; but Hoffs is paying more attention than Doug is when she giggles aloud, drawing the faces of the teens around them from blankness at the sudden lapse out of JD vocabulary into amused, relieved smirks. The bell sounds. Judy slides a hand into Doug's back pocket and starts to steer him away from the table as the others begin to make a show of reluctantly rising and tossing their litter aside. Leisurely she walks him to the hall, watches as Hanson loiters in the opposite direction with a smaller crowd of what appears to be key figures from the gang, earrings dangling and chained-jackets jingling, then detaches herself from him in order to twist in her locker combination. Doug leans a shoulder against the locker adjacent and sighs heavily.

He's somewhat relieved that she decides to leave the groping thing alone. Somewhat.

"So. You and Hanson seem a little..." she raises her eyebrows in place of the next word, shoving things around in the nearly-empty locker. "...Today."

Doug pulls his hands out of his pockets to dig the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "Oh yeah."

Her voice drops a little. "You told him, then?"

Doug frowns. Pauses his attempts to push his eyeballs back into his skull. Responds likewise, with a whisper. "Told him what?"

Jude's mouth drops a little, and her eyebrows, sly knowingness being replaced by consolation. "That bad, huh?"

Doug blinks rapidly. "What bad? What are you talking about? What?"

Jude steps back a little, withdrawing her hands from the locker, raising them face-out and shaking her head. "Hey, hey. Calm down. So you don't wanna talk about it, I'll just forget it then." She shrugs a little as she slams the locker closed again, clicking the padlock closed, then turning away and walking down the hall.

"What!?" His hissed whisper slaps its consonants against the dinted, tin doors of the lockers; but Hoffs doesn't turn around again.

 

*

Half an hour later and Doug is revelling in the comparatively luxurious waiting-room seats outside the principal's office, the silence (bar the tap-tap of the secretary's typewriter) allowing his headache to abate at least until his name -- or rather, alias -- is called again. Which it is, of course, too soon (heck, even if it were _next week_ it'd be too soon). It's moments like these (Doug thinks with a mental sigh), slouching on the opposite side of the desk to the balding, bad-tempered and sweaty man, that he really wished 'undercover' didn't include hoodwinking the staff. But it's Hanson who's badge-happy, he reminds himself as the principal raises his eyebrows and leans forward in an all-too-familiar pose, leafing through Doug's fabricated file.

"Tyler, Douglas," the principal begins to recite. "Regular class disturbances. Tardiness. Handling illegal substances on school property." He peers at Doug over his reading glasses, snaps the papers. "I'm not in the habit of transferring students _out_ of my school, Mr Tyler, but I should warn you now that I have no qualms about suspending students who behave inappropriately."

Doug curls his mouth up in something akin to a grin of acknowledgement. As great as suspension sounds right now, making a show of arriving back in class from a visit to the principal's office would be somewhat more effective in getting him off this case _today_.

"Make sure your records don't repeat themselves in every respect, Tyler," the principal hooks off his glasses, leans back. "And I look forward to not seeing you in here again. Dismissed."

"Yes sir. Thankyou, sir." And Doug is up and out of the chair again, shutting the door behind him.

He's leaning his elbows back against the secretary's high front bench, lounging idly as she fills out his hall pass, when Hanson appears in the doorway. He's frowning, the kind of frown that always seems to turn into a pout and make him look like a kid playing dress-ups -- not that Doug's ever had the heart to tell him that.

"Hey, cuz," Doug quips when Hanson doesn't look up and notice him, and whatever it was that had curled a warm hand around Doug's insides at Hanson's unexpected appearance abruptly grips then lets them fall away when Hanson's look of pure unexpected startledness settles into a closer scowl than before.

Doug holds his hand out for the usual novelty handshake, elbow held close in to his belly, but Hanson's grip is wan and non-committal (and, uh, somewhat clammy; but Doug's uncomfortable enough now that he can't make a joke of wiping his hands on his jeans like he might have otherwise) before he comes in to lean next to Doug on the bench, half a yard away, elbows down and shoulders turned away. He hands a folded piece of paper to the secretary as she slides Doug's pass up onto the benchtop. "Hey." Hanson's chewing gum again, blinking lazily in his best nonchalant-thug impression. "Wandering the halls without a pass again?"

"Just got me one." Doug waves the paper between two fingers. The secretary clears her throat pointedly. "You?"

"Anyone'd think talking back to the teacher was against the law." Hanson chews and grins at the same time, a somewhat disturbing combination, though it's a bit more than the baring of teeth that it was earlier in the day, and Doug feels the tightness in his shoulders loosen a little. He slouches lower against the bench, slides over to jostle Hanson's arm.

"Hey," he lowers his voice a little. "I won't rat on you if you can introduce me to someone who can hook me up…"

Hanson's expression of amused interest turns into a fully-fledged smirk the instant the secretary clears her throat again and the door to the principal's office opens again. "Tyler," the principal barks. "Class, now, or detention." He turns to Hanson. "Thomas Lantz. Office."

Hanson pushes away from the desk, not breaking eye contact with Doug until he's past Doug's shoulder and behind. "Bye _Thomas_," Doug calls, turning to watch as the principal steps aside to allow Hanson into the office. "See you after school."

"Tyler," the principal's voice is dangerously taut. "_Now._" Doug tugs his (stiff-with-product) forelock and turns heel, shoving his hall pass into his back pocket and pursing his lips to whistle.

*

 

Hoffs gets them a back seat in one of the gang's cars; a small back seat, but with the right people in the front so they cram in without complaint. Judy climbs in first and gestures for Doug to follow her; they all three grimace a little as Hanson heaves on the door and wedges them in as firmly as if they were being wound up by a clamp. Doug's leather jacket creaks as he attempts to shift into a more comfortable position, but to no avail. Hoffs flails a little and grabs for Doug's knee as the car abruptly revs and jerks forward away from the curb; Doug flails and grabs for Hanson's knee as the car swerves around a corner and the momentum pulls him out of position. And, uh, it's the fact that Hanson's so pointedly still (excepting the sudden push-back into the seat that the car's rapid acceleration provides) that makes Doug remove his hand only when they're well settled again; or as settled as you can be in a sardine tin. He rests his hand on his own leg, then, sneaking a glance from the corner of his eye as he determinedly stares straight ahead; Tom's just as intensely gazing out the window. Judy coughs slightly, Then pointedly looks away as Doug turns his attention to her. And it's kinda warm in this low, vinyl-roofed car that's been sitting in the sun all day, that's all that's making Doug flush like a prepubescent girl (and yeah, it's the prepubescent girl thing making him hyper-aware of the heat of Hanson's thigh against the edge of his pinkie too), and with that thought the car slams to a halt.

"All right, ladies," the kid in the front seat crows. "Everybody out!"

The diner is like any other, an over-abundance of kids with too much time on their hands (according to Hanson) but enjoying their youth nonetheless (according to Doug) and a disgruntled middle-aged woman in a pink dressbar serving milkshakes and pie over a chrome-edged bar. Doug smiles apologetically at her as they pass; she scowls in return. They slide into a booth, Hanson near the window and facing in; Doug boost himself up on one of the dividers between booths as the rest of the gang settling in around them. As soon as everyone is seated and horseplay in full momentum, Hanson begins the negotiations. Doug's somewhat relieved that he appears to want to get out of here as soon as possible, and it seems that Hoffs is of the same mind; leaning in to rest her hands on the edge of the table, chewing her gum ostentatiously, flicking her hair. She exchanges a glance with Hanson as the kids start to sober up a little, leaning in to listen closer.

"So me and my cousin here heard you could hook us up." Hanson stirs his ice with the fluorescent pink straw.

"Yeah? What gave you that idea?"

"My girl from Jefferson, here," Hanson nods towards Judy, who nods, a quick toss of her chin. The edge of Hanson's mouth curls up a little, and he leans forward conspiratorially. "Her and I go way back."

The kid opposite smirks and fumbles in his breast pocket; pulls out a packet of cigarettes and withdraws one between his lips before holding the pack out to Hanson. Not breaking eye contact, Hanson draws one out, holding it between his knuckles.

"Hey," it's the disgruntled waitress, scowling over their table, hands-on-hips making the cotton sleeves over her shoulders even puffier. "No minors smoking in the diner." She gestures her thumb over her shoulder. "Out."

The kid sighs ostentatiously and pushes up from the table, starting to shuffle his way out of the crowd settled around the table. "Care to step into my office?" he quips, and Hanson rises likewise, catching Doug's eye as he too edges out, nodding in the direction the kid is heading. Doug stands, starts to follow. The kid turns, raises an eyebrow.

"No deals without my business associate," Hanson states blandly, and the kid looks Doug up and down before nodding at an associate of his own who follows them along the crowded aisle and out the side door of the arcade.

The alleyway is like a thousand others Doug's visited in the city; sweaty dumpsters and bedraggled cardboard boxes, brick walls rising up with rickety rusted fire escapes clinging desperately to the side, graffiti --- Doug grimaces at the white-dripped slogan directly opposite them: _COPS LOVE COCK_. Hanson leans in with his cigarette as the kid holds out a zippo, frowns around the first drag. "How much?"

The kid blows out a wave of smoke, names a figure. Doug shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning back against a gritty wall to watch as Hanson shrugs, reaches for his wallet. Doug clears his throat, they turn to look at him. "Let me see it first."

Hanson blinks at him, eyes narrowing, stopping with wallet in one hand and cigarette in the other as Doug steps forward, taking the pouch of white powder the kid holds out for him. He dips his thumb in it, touches it to the tip of his tongue. Nods at Hanson before stepping back again. Hanson tilts his head a little. "Thankyou, Douglas."

Doug answers the somewhat contrived tone in kind. "Not at all, Thomas."

Hanson pulls the bills out of his wallet, snaps them straight, hands them over. Doug slips the evidence into his jacket pocket, then watches the familiar movement of Hanson reaching into his inside pocket for his badge. "It's been a long day," Hanson sighs, lips twisting to hold the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and talk at the same time. "And I really want to go home. So lets make this as quick and painless as possible, shall we boys?" Doug steps forward, knowing what's coming next. Hanson flips open his badge.

Like deer in the headlights, the kids both tense and attempt to bolt, but this has become an art to them and Doug wants to go home as much as Hanson so they grab the kids in unison and shuffle them towards the wall. Hanson's goes limp pretty much immediately, cussing quietly, but Doug's luck for the day has well and truly run out; the kid with the pocketful of cash struggles as if his life depends on it.

"Jeez… would you… F--" Doug braces the kid face-first against the wall, leaning his forearm against the kid's crossed hands. He turns to Hanson, who's taking another drag on his cigarette and observing; his own kid motionless and cuffed already, head down. "Little help, here?"

"What would you like me to do?"

Several things rush through Doug's head, not all of them as charitable as they could be. "Some cuffs would be handy."

"Sorry," Hanson stops his mouth with the cigarette again, gestures towards the kid. "I'm already using mine."

"You mean-- _quit_ it--" Doug braces the kid more firmly. "You only brought _one pair?_"

Hanson shrugs, unfazed, smirking around the cigarette. "You mean you didn't bring _any?_?"

Doug swears, then, and again as the kid manages to free an arm and get flail it in the general direction of Doug's face. "Can you at least--oh for Chrissakes--" He pins the kid with a solid shoulder and reaches out to rip the still-smoking cigarette from Hanson's amused mouth, tosses it fiercely to the sticky asphalt.

"Hey--!" Hanson begins, apparently genuinely upset, when the back door to the arcade opens again and Hoffs steps out.

"Are you _done_ yet?" Exasperated, she tips her hat back and observes the scene before her. "I called a cruiser already. Doug, what the heck are you doing?"

"Well I was _trying_ to arrest this kid, but Officer Hanson here seems determined to--"

"Hey!" Hanson interjects, "_I'm_ not the one who decided not to bring his cuffs to a bust, especially when--"

"Oh, will you two quit it and get a room already?" Judy drops her hands from her hips and stomps (as well as she can in pumps, anyway) over to where Doug's still leaning against the now relatively motionless kid, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of the depths of her bulky jeans jacket.

"You guys are _dating_?" the kid remarks, his tone incredulous. "And you're _cousins_? Eww."

Doug closes his mouth, jerks the kid's arms a little higher, fumbling for the cuffs. "We're not _dating_," he spits, at the same instant as Hanson says in a similar tone; "We're not _cousins_." --Oh.

..._poke-poke, I owe you a coke,_ Doug thinks, only not, and concentrates on clipping the cuffs on the kid as fast as he can, something somewhat aided by the fact that the kid is too preoccupied with laughter to bother struggling any further.

 

*

"Draught," Hanson keeps it simple as they clamber onto the bar stools and the bartender heads in their direction; barely batting an eyelid as he flicks open his badge to the man's request for ID.

"Bud," Doug adds. "And keep it coming."

"Hard day at the office, officers?" the bartender asks when he returns with their drinks. Doug glances to Hanson to see him looking back.

"You can count on it."

An hour later and the particular stiffness of Hanson's shoulders has slumped somewhat, his legs idly kicking somewhat more freely about a foot off the ground in front of the bar. He gives a slow drawl of a laugh, and Doug snorts into his beer, slouched forward on his own stool, head down. "Yeah. You kinda looked like you were going to shove the chalk up his nose or something," Doug continues. "I was ready to pull the pigtails in front of me just to stop you digging yourself deeper."

Hanson takes another swig of his bottle, having done away with the glass several drinks back, and grins. "Don't talk to me about digging yourself deeper," he smirks. "We all end up in the principal's office at some time; at least I don't make a point of extending my suspension times using any m--any me--any means possible," Hanson hiccoughs.

Doug waves the bartender over, then slurps the foamy head of his fresh glass of beer, belching happily. "Well, all I have to say is thank goodness for the weekend."

 

Hanson abruptly lifts his arm in toast, beer wavering dangerously. "To it not being a school night!" he bellows, and then there's a little accident as Doug attempts to engage in a novelty handshake with him as they're both holding their drinks.

Another two hours and Doug's fumbling with his keys in the dim light of the hall, Hanson leaning against the wall by the door mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like a very out-of-key rendition of The Eurythmics' latest. Doug falls through the abruptly open door. "You know," he slurs, dropping his keys somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen bench and going automatically to the fridge. "For such a bad beginning, this day didn't end up so bad after all."

Hanson laughs lazily from somewhere in the vicinity of Doug's sofa. "'Snot so bad."

"I guess not." Hanson's struggling with his jacket, now; all Doug can see are his arms jerking around over the sofa arm. "Hey, buddy," Doug interjects, beginning to walk towards him. "Maybe you should undo the buttons first--" There's a violent thud as Hanson slides off the edge of the sofa to the floor, and Doug thinks he might die from the mixture of laughter and booze jostling around in his belly when Hanson blinks up at him, his expression a mixture of surprise and hurt.

"Oh…" Doug gasps for breath, grasps for something to hold onto, finds the floor. "Oh man. Oh. I really need to use the bathroom."

"Okie dokie," Hanson lifts his hand, finger-and-thumb pointed like a pistol, taps it to his forehead and winks, clicking his mouth. A dribble of spittle runs onto his chin, sending Doug into another fit that increases the dangerously high pressure on his bladder. He crawls to the bathroom.

When he gets back Hanson is still on the floor, jacket off in a sprawled pile next to him, and the effort of removing it seems to have exhausted him because his head's resting back on the seat of the sofa, adam's apple bobbing a little as his mouth drops further open, eyes closed and an immense, buzzing snore ringing through the open space of the apartment.

"Hey," Doug slumps onto the sofa next to Hanson's head. He prods Hanson's shoulder. "Hey. Hey Hanson. Tom." Hanson's eyes peel open again, his mouth shuts abruptly, and he peers up at Doug.

"Ung."

"You wanna crash?" Doug's having some difficulty keeping his eyes open himself.

Hanson swallows, nods, eyelids drooping again. Doug stands again, hauling on Hanson's upper arm in an attempt to get him to his feet with mixed success. They stumble toward Doug's stairs. Hanson gives out another slurred, short laugh. "Hey, Doug," he chirps drunkenly. "How do you propose we get up the stairs?"

Ten minutes later and Doug is beginning to question the logic of his proposed course of action, with Hanson's wet laughter tickling his ear and Hanson's pointy ribs digging into his back. "Hey," Doug coughs. "Quit it… you're choking me--" Hanson's legs kick a little at Doug's heels, and he shifts his arms where they're folded around Doug's neck.

"I can't exack--egg--exactly _let go_, Penhall."

"Well, how about…" Doug shifts his shoulders, tightening his grip on the edges of the pseudo-ladder that leads to his bedroom. Hanson's arms tense in response. "Grab the steps, there…" He flattens himself against the almost-vertical stairs and gives a sigh of relief as Hanson grips the steps above him, then swears as Hanson's feet drag up his back, Hanson's belt buckle catching on the back of his head; "Watch it--!"

Hanson's feet disappear above him and Doug gives a sigh of relief, hauling himself the rest of the way up the stairs to collapse on the landing. He does nothing but breathe for a few moments, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal and his panting at the exertion to subside. He turns his head. Hanson is lying next to him, in a similar pose of exhaustion. Or if not exhaustion; paralysis. "Doug," Hanson slurs at length, mouth opening into a sluggish grin, eyes still closed.

"What?" Doug props himself up on an elbow, but slowly, in order to subdue the fact that the room is spinning.

"What are we doing in your bedroom?"

Doug blinks. "I don't remember." He can't remember why they're whispering, either.

"Doug," Doug leans down a little closer. "Doug, Doug, Doug." Hanson's eyes open, fixate on a place somewhere behind Doug's ear with wide eyes. He lifts a hand and flops it somewhere between Doug's neck and shoulder. Doug winces a little as Hanson tugs on the hair at the back of his neck. Hanson smirks. "I li--lick--like… I like your hairs," he mumbles, pulling until Doug has no choice but to drop his head lower.

"Hey, what--!" Doug attempts to struggle but only succeeds on losing his precarious balance and landing his chin on Hanson's chest. "Did you just _lick_ my hair?"

"Chew," Hanson mumbles.

"You'd better not still be chewing gum as well, then, because I--"

He pushes himself up again, and then makes the mistake of looking down. Hanson's face is blank again, eyes not so wide but eyelids lazy, mouth open. "Hey, Doug," he murmurs, slur receding for a moment in the buzz of softness Doug's close enough to hear every fibre of. "Ever get that feeling of _déjà vu_?" His hand's still clenched at the back of Doug's neck so it's the easiest thing in the world -- easier than staying upright, Doug's sure of that if nothing else -- to let the weight of it pull him down that final distance.

Their teeth clash, Doug's lip bruised between the clunk of hard enamel so he opens his mouth further to avoid further pain to find that Hanson's done the same; and then he's drowning in a kiss that's not much more than a slick loss of control, taste of beer and the texture of Hanson's tongue buffeting him up on waves that move as effortlessly as the tide.

Hanson tugs on Doug's hair again, pulling his head up hard, and Doug opens his eyes, blinking to focus. Hanson looks like he's having difficulty focusing himself. The close space around them is filled with the sound of their breathing, quick and determined, and Doug watches as Hanson's tongue swipes at his lower lip, mouth gleaming. Doug groans, drops his head again; bending his nose painfully on Hanson's chin before his mouth finds the edge of Hanson's jaw, mouthing blindly as Hanson mouth smears against his temple.

"Do you…" Hanson slurs, drunk on more than just light beer. "Um…" He trails off as Doug's teeth scrape against his throat, prickle of impending beard against Doug's tongue.

"What?" he murmurs; buzz against Hanson's adam's apple. "Yes." Whatever it takes to shut him up, at this point. Which includes Doug shifting to push his thigh up between Hanson's legs, resulting in the grip on the back of his head becoming abruptly fierce and his face being mashed against Hanson's neck. "Mmfbtfmm," he says, and pushes up harder, resting his weight on his knee in order to free his hands.

A few minutes later and Doug gives an exasperated sigh against Hanson's shirt. "How the hell do you get _into_ these jeans, anyway?" Hanson's chest shakes with laughter, jerking Doug where his forehead is pressed to Hanson's breastbone. Doug gives in (belt buckle -- 1, Doug Penhall -- 0), sliding down to press the heel of his palm against the ridge of Hanson's fly, baring his teeth in a tight grin at the result (so _that's_ what it takes to make him swear). Hanson's hands slide down from Doug's hair to his ass and Doug gives up all pretext of removing clothing in order to grind against Hanson's bony hip until Hanson opens his legs wide enough to improve the angle.

Doug's brain begins to short-circuit as every minute spark of energy buzzing over his skin rush to his groin, eyes closed and mouth moving over Hanson's hard enough to feel the reverberation of Hanson's skull grinding against the bare floor through his teeth, contrast of slickness and frustrating burn of denim friction and he has a moment to realise with perfect clarity, _I'm dry-humping Officer Tom Hanson on the floor two feet away from my bed_ and _but at least I'm not so drunk that I won't remember it this time_, and then he's very irrevocably pulled under.

*

 

"Penhall," Hanson's voice is slurred still; though more sated than drunk, which gives Doug pause for only an instant before he forces it beneath the more pressing things for him to consider. "You're crushing me. Would you--" Hanson shoves half-heartedly. "Get _off_ me."

Doug rolls onto his back, fills his lungs deep and squeezes his eyes closed fiercely before blinking them into focus again. Hanson groans. "Ugh. My head is killing me."

"Sorry about that." Doug turns his head to look up at where Hanson's propped himself up on his elbows, rubbing the back of his head and grimacing. He glances over at Doug, shrugs.

"Won't even notice it by tomorrow morning," he remarks wryly. Doug snorts. Hanson sits up the rest of the way, legs splayed in front of him, spine curved inward. He winces a little, looks down. "If I go down the stairs, I'm not going to make it up again, am I?"

Doug shakes his head.

"Guess I'll have to save that shower for tomorrow morning as well, then." He drops back onto his back and fumbles with his belt buckle, somewhat more deftly than Doug had.

The blanket Doug was wearing that morning is still on the sofa downstairs, so Doug pulls the kicked-down sheet from the foot of the low-sitting bed up over them, and within moments Hanson is snoring. Doug lies awake for several minutes before giving the limp body a shove; Hanson mutters something unintelligible and rolls over onto his side, his breathing settling into a softer, steadier rushing sound that makes Doug feel like he's in the inside of a seashell, the sound curling soft and pink around him, smooth, inexorable like the movement of waves. He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/29426.html


End file.
